


the dragon

by crestedhearts (orphan_account)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Boxer AU, F/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Blood, Oral Sex, Smut, Tattoos, Underground Boxer AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crestedhearts
Summary: A dragon will always return to his hoard.
Relationships: Diavolo (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 61





	the dragon

HIS SILENCE WAS A GIFT. IT was not something that many people took for granted. At times, it was a blessing; when small, insipid little arguments took precedent to fill in the gaps of yearning and lust and love that overtook them both. At times, it was a curse; when his anger overtook his voice, made him cold, made him as sharp as the fine edge of a knife, suffocated him to only breathe and never speak a word.

For his opponents, it was a nightmare.

On the nights that he was unoccupied, left to stew alone without an outlet to release his rage and frustration, he fought. He fought with blood, sweat, and the stone cold tears that never saw the light of day as long as he was awake and moving. He fought with grace, with elegance, muscles rippling with every hit, every senseless punch aimed at another.

His silence was violent.

But sometimes, in the dead of night, when he returned home with bloodied knuckles and bruises that lasted for weeks, his silence was loving.

Returning from a long night in the Devildom fighting ring, eight figures richer and bereft of the rage that built up inside him, the Dragon returned to himself--returned to Diavolo. A tired, broken man with more power than he knew what to do with and enough money to destroy the world twice over and still have enough leftover to keep him comfy.

The lights of his kitchen were still on, the smell of recently cooked food lingering in the air. He found the remains packed up in Tupperware boxes, slapped with a sticky note that had little hearts scrawled on the top. He smiled, then, a soft, quick thing, and ate his dinner in relative quiet. He could hear the sound of a fan whirring in his bedroom, soft snores echoing past the open door, but he didn't want to disturb her just yet.

He cleaned his dishes and returned them to their rightful places. He cleaned his wounds and bandaged them under the harsh light of the overhead lights in the bathroom, picking out dead bits of skin and dirt and grime that would prevent them from healing properly. His knuckles sufficiently bandaged, he set to work on cleaning the cuts and gouges in his face, unflinching as he dabbed antiseptic upon each one with practiced care.

Then, putting away his first aid kit, he entered his study. It was a contrast to the sleek, minimalist lines of his penthouse apartment; it was painted with warm reds, oranges, decorated--lived in. He opened his bottle of scotch and poured himself a finger or two, relishing in the sweet burn down his throat that set his nerves afire.

This routine was not foriegn to him. It was a ritual, a practice, a cleansing to remove the sin from his hands, from his soul, if only for a few hours. He would wake in the morning, feel the ache in his bones, and feel the sin take him anew until they faded, until he did it again, and again, and again, until there was nothing left of him to return to.

But he would always return to her, no matter what was left of him for her to reclaim.

She slept in his room, on his bed, in the same position that he always found her in: the duvet shoved down to the footboard, knees cradling a pillow to soothe her aching spine, a hand tucked between her body and the bed and another underneath her cheek, resting lightly on a pillow--his pillow. And like always, she wore one of his shirts, one he had slept in the night previous, with only black cotton underwear underneath. The moonlight filtered in from the balcony windows and turned her skin aglow, gentle trails of light following the path of her legs and the smooth expanse of her neck.

Her eyes fluttered open when she heard the telltale zip of his pants being undone, as he worked to get out of the blood stained clothing and burn them in the morning. She turned her head, [color] eyes shining as she regarded him from her place upon his bed, still sleepy and perfectly beautiful.

"You're early," she whispered, her voice a silvery croak with sleep. A glance at the clock revealed he was, in fact, early by thirty minutes. She watched him toss his clothes into a hamper, watched the dragon tattoos on his back roll and crease and flex with every pull of his muscles. "Did you eat dinner?"

She referenced quietly to the platter of stir fry and chicken she had cooked before she went to bed, even though she knew he ate it like he always did.

"Of course." He walked over to her side of the bed, entirely nude now, and leaned over to kiss her forehead. She raked her fingers across his hip lovingly, her engagement ring catching the light as her hand moved across the smooth bronze of his skin. "It was good. I couldn't place the spices on the chicken, though."

She laughed lightly, moving to allow him to sit down on the edge of the bed beside her. Her hand moved to trace the skin of his ribs and back, rubbing smooth circles with her palm not just to soothe him, but herself. To know he was there and not just a figment of her imagination. "It was paprika this time. You've always been a little blind to the spicier ones."

"Ah, I should have known." He ran a hand up the length of her thigh, toying with the elastic of her panties with a hum. "When did you go to bed?"

"Not too long ago." She bit her lip as his thumb grazed her hip bone, slipping beneath her underwear and following the slope between her legs lightly. "Maybe an hour or so."

"Mm." He gently removed the pillow from between her knees, placing it somewhere behind her. His hand moved from beneath her underwear to her knee, sliding up and between her thighs to cup the heat of her in his palm. “And how was work?”

“A nightmare,” she whispered, a quiet gasp escaping her throat as the pad of his thumb followed the path of her folds through the thin cotton. “If I have to listen to another one of those old women tell me what my models should be wearing, it’ll be soon. You might have to call an interve--”

His lips twitched up into a grin when her sentence stuttered off into oblivion, interrupted by his thumb slipping underneath her panties and between her lips to stroke a smooth caress up the slick flesh. “Go on.”

“An intervention,” she finished, mouth going dry when his free hand slipped up her shirt--his shirt, faded ‘Devildom’ logo and all. His fingers danced little lines up the lines of her stomach, following the slight divot between her ribs and hip, and just barely brushing the swell of her breasts with each circle he drew upon her skin. “God, Diavolo, you know I can’t th-think when you do this!”

“I know,” he soothed her, moving his fingers lower into her heat, working his thumb into her opening just-so. His eyes almost fluttered shut at the feel of her walls squeezing around the intrusion, slick and sweet and wet for him. But he couldn’t miss the minute contortions of her face, the crease in her brow, or the way she drew her bottom lip into her mouth when he squeezed her breast with a firm hand. “Don’t think, then. Just feel, darling.”

This was the routine. He could feel the tension in his shoulders fading away like he had been swept to sea, the edginess that came with his fights drowning underneath the pleasure of watching her squirm beneath his languid attentions. He wasn’t surprised by the small shriek that left her mouth when he switched his thumb to rub against her swollen clit, index and middle finger hooking deep into her depths, sweeping, searching, eyes fixed on her face to see her reaction when he reached it.

As soon as he felt the subtle ridges around his finger, her hands flew down to clamp around the smooth muscle of his forearm. He smiled when her moan was devoid of sound, just a breath in an otherwise quiet room where only the two of them existed. When she tried to push his hand away from her clit, the pleasure too much for her to handle, he didn’t move, continuing to draw light circles around the engorged nub to give her a chance to breathe. Her chest heaved underneath his hand where it hovered over her breast, over her heart, where it thumped against his fingers in rapid excitement.

“Take a breath,” he encouraged her with an indulgent whisper, moving his index finger to rest just outside the edge of her g-spot. She wasn’t quite ready for the a-spot just yet. She had a habit of not breathing when experiencing pleasure that he hadn’t quite been able to break just yet. “[Name]?”

“I’m good,” she reassured him quickly. In the light of the moon he could just barely make out the crimson flush creeping up her neck and face with the influx of air in her lungs. “Are you--?”

He gave her g-spot a rough stroke and her eyes slammed shut, her entire body curling around his hand. Her fingers dug into his forearm, nails gouging crescent pits into his skin, but he never minded them just like he never minded the streaking red trails she dragged down his shoulders in the morning.

A few well timed strokes to her clit in tandem with his fingers inside her and she was gone, a high pitched moan leaving her throat. Her liquids streamlined down his fingers and wrist, warm and pleasant, and he felt the knot of tension in his spine go away completely.

Chest heaving and heart ramming against her ribcage, she couldn’t break eye contact with him as he removed his hand from her gently and brought his fingers to his lips, cleaning them one by one and unable to stop his bandages from getting in the way. Then, with a gentleness reserved only for her, he straightened her underwear and shirt, and got to work on himself.

She watched him take himself into his hand, half-lidded golden eyes fixed on her face as he began one smooth pump into the fist around his cock. His hips bucked into the movement, creating a steady rhythm that she wished he would replicate inside her. A bead of precum fell down his knuckles and she caught it with her fingers, bringing it to her mouth and sucking it between her teeth, humming at the salty flavor. She watched as all of the muscles in his back flexed, his pupils dilating more than she had seen, and his thrusts became sharper, harder.

She inhaled when he came with a low, grunted exhale, a sound deep in his chest that resembled the name he had been given.

The Dragon.

**Author's Note:**

> I struggled with this ending. I've been in a rut for a bit, which is why I haven't updated anything in... forever. I hope you all can forgive me. <3 I might make this a one-shot AU for most of the brothers if you guys like it enough.


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